


Goodbye

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, a metric fuck ton of angst, because I am a sucker for suffering, surprise children it is feels murder time, this is what happens when I listen to Katy Perry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 15:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17921123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: One year. As the words trip across his plush lips, that’s all you can think about. One year. One year of dance hall dates, of being the girl on Bucky Barnes’s arm, of sweet kisses and a warm hand holding your own. There’s a small part inside of you that refuses to listen to what he’s saying, refuses to acknowledge the bravery of his decision, that screams loud and desperate because he will leave you. He’s ripping himself away from this life, throwing himself into a dangerous game few seem to be surviving.





	Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Crosspost time again! If I remember the reactions correctly from when I posted this on tumblr, this one might require a few tissues...

One year. As the words trip across his plush lips, that’s all you can think about. One year. One year of dance hall dates, of being the girl on Bucky Barnes’s arm, of sweet kisses and a warm hand holding your own. There’s a small part inside of you that refuses to listen to what he’s saying, refuses to acknowledge the bravery of his decision, that screams loud and desperate because he will leave you. He’s ripping himself away from this life, throwing himself into a dangerous game few seem to be surviving.

“Sweetheart? Sweetheart, please, say somethin’.”

Bucky’s cap is tipped just so, jaunty and paints such a handsome picture along with his pressed uniform, but god, his eyes betray him. How many times have the pressing silences between you erupted into arguments just because he couldn’t keep the annoyance out of them? You’d like to think you are an open book, but Bucky Barnes tries so hard to keep part of himself locked away, only to be betrayed by the keyhole into the very room he’s hiding in. You can’t even fault him, you wish you could do the same sometimes.

“W-when?” you finally stutter, unable to face his worry right now, too afraid that the pacing monster inside you will break free if you do.

You know it won’t be good by the slightly pause before he speaks again. It never is, and you steel yourself for the deadly blow.

“I… I leave for England tomorrow.”

One year, and it’ll all be gone tomorrow. You are an open book, and he reads you with a pained expression on his face.

“I didn’t- I got my orders today. Please, doll, it’s not that bad. I won’t- They’re not sendin’ us into battle straight away. You gotta understand, I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t?” It comes out sharper than you intend, slipping out before you can lock yourself down again. He’s leaving tomorrow, and you won’t allow your parting to be tainted by anger.

“I got drafted,” he confesses, jaw clenching before cupping your cheeks and bringing you in close. “Please, don’t tell Stevie. I told him I volunteered, it’s… I thought it would be easier.”

“Nothing about this is easy, Bucky.” You look over your shoulders, spotting the mop of blond hair a little ways away, where Steve is buying snacks from a vendor. “You should tell him.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I can’t. He’s… Well, you know how he is. Please, darlin’, I just want my last night to be somethin’ I can remember when I’m fighting.”

It is soft and pleading, the request matching the sadness in his eyes. It appeases the mounting hurricane inside, dissipates the raging emotions somewhat, calms the howling into a starved whine that longs to take and give in equal measures. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you let yourself melt into him. His warmth will soon be gone, and he will need yours where he is going.

Minutes and hours mercilessly tick by, caring none for the desperation you show in giving and taking until your breaths turn ragged and you think a part of you has been burned into Bucky’s heart forever. The silence of the cramped apartment he shares with Steve has saved every litany of praise, every prayer for more, every vow of safe return and every dream of the future. 

“I’ll come home, sweetheart. I’ll come home, and I’ll put the prettiest ring on your finger, and I’ll never leave you again. No, baby, don’t- I swear, God himself can’t make me break this promise. It’ll be us against the world.”

You wake up alone, Bucky’s sheets cold, and you allow yourself to break. His scent still lingers in the pillow case, his touch a ghost trailing over your skin. The room feels too empty, desolate without him in it. His things are still there, but now they seem to belong to someone else, a stranger that never held your heart. Outside, the subdued clattering of dishes signals that Steve has found his way home too, and if it wasn’t for the monster moaning its swan song, you’d feel a little ashamed, because how could Steve not figure out why you’d be in Bucky’s room. He knocks five minutes later and offers breakfast, and you stay quiet until you hear him shuffling away, not leaving until much later when Steve has already left.

For a while it hurts, your friends fawning over you and trying to paint you as the devoted girlfriend who waits while her best guy is somewhere across the ocean fighting for freedom. There is nothing glorious about it. Bile rises in your throat when you go to a movie and it’s prefaced by a short snippet about the war effort, the brave Captain America smiling for the camera. There is nothing glorious about waiting for a sign of life, or a proof of death.

There are signs of life. Bucky sends letters, his hurried scrawl making your heart leap, every declaration of life and love signed with  _“Us against the world”._ There are signs of life, and you cling to them, repeating promises made and vows uttered until you think you can see them on the horizon.

And then the next letter.

_“I regret to report that Sergeant James B Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment went missing behind enemy lines…”_

Something rips from you, the festering worry finally rupturing and you finally allow the scream that has been bottled up for nearly a year to claw its way out of your chest. There is nothing glorious about it, nothing like the starlets of the silver screen would have you believe. It is ugly and visceral and it hurts when you shatter, when every hope and dream of seeing Bucky again is torn from you. 

_I swear, God himself can’t make me break this promise._

God, you decide, cares nothing for war. He reaps no profit, doesn’t grant mercy. God, you realize, did not make Bucky break his promise. The devil takes his due.

* * *

_“A symbol to the nation, a hero to the world…”_

You clutch your cane harder, drawing in a shallow breath before stepping onto the escalators. Up until recently, it’s been years, maybe even decades since you let yourself think about him, about  _them_. Everywhere, Steve’s face looks down at you, stoic with his mouth set in a determined line. It’s not him you’re here for, not really.

History has been kind to him, and by association, to Bucky. They found each other in the chaos, fought together and died within a year of each other. Bucky has his place in the exhibit, as he should. You don’t know how they found you, but a year before, a representative from the Smithsonian reached out, saying they had found out you had been Barnes’s girlfriend before the war, and were you perhaps willing to contribute to the part of the exhibition dedicated to Sergeant Barnes?

Time has made you a liar.

It was easy to give a small laugh, to confirm that yes, indeed, you were Sergeant Barnes’s gal before the war, but it was only a year. You barely heard from him after he shipped out. So much time has gone by, you doubt you’d have anything to contribute, whether physical mementos or exciting stories. It was only a year after all, you understand, don’t you.

Your heart clenches when you make your way to the front of the group of people admiring the uniforms. You never got photos of him like this, as a member of the Howling Commandos. His army uniform had been handsome as any, but god, you would have given anything to see him in this, the blue playing off his eyes and the soft brown of his hair. 

_“Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country…”_

You can’t help the tear that trails down your cheek, the flickering newsreel of Bucky and Steve smiling together too much for you. You shouldn’t have come. You’re almost 90, this is no place for you. Maybe you should have just told them the truth when they called: that every letter Bucky ever sent rests in a box at the back of a closet, that they have been in that box since 1944, that you’ve carefully packed it up and ignored the sting in your heart with every move.

Sniffling, you turn to leave, walking past the glass wall dedicated to Bucky when something pulls your gaze up. Later you will say it was all your imagination, the result of confronting the memories you’ve tried to keep hidden all these decades. But right now, there’s a set of footsteps that calls to something in you, that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end and your heart trill in anticipation. You find a pair of eyes in the crowd, dark under the black peak of a baseball cap, but you know that should he remove it and step into the light, they would be as blue as you remember them. For a second there seems to be a flash of recognition in them, lips parting as if to speak your name.

And then the man passes, and you feel like your breath has been knocked out of you. The air seems stuffier than before, and you hurry to get outside, sitting down on a bench to draw in deep breaths. It’s all a trick, a combination of wishful thinking, low light and seventy years of heartbreak taking you by surprise.

He’s not actually there.

* * *

_Heavy footsteps search the rows, a bundle of flowers gripped tightly in one hand. Part of him knows what he will find, another one fearful of what he’ll feel. He wanted to find you as soon as he remembered, as soon as he made sense of why his heart sped up at the memory of an older lady locking eyes with him at the museum, but time and haunting ghosts kept him from you._

_Finally finding what he’s looking for, he swallows thickly, kneeling on the dewy grass, letting one gloved hand run over the smooth marble._

_“Hello, sweetheart. I promised I’d be back, didn’t I?” His voice cracks, eyes blurring as he takes in the condensed story of your life, imagining everything that must fit into the dash between the two dates. “I’m sorry I took so long, that I couldn’t come back sooner. I made you a promise, darlin’, and now I’m too late. I just want you to know I saw you. I saw you and you looked just as pretty as the morning I left. God, I wish I could have come back, that we could have had that life I talked about.”  
_

_He clears away the leaves that have fallen, gingerly placing the flowers, rearranging them to his liking. “I kissed you goodbye that morning. Had to tear myself away, but I couldn’t leave without a final kiss. And I don’t know if you remember it, but you kissed me back. It was all I could think about on the way over, the one thing that kept me sane in the trenches, the thought that even in your sleep, you could recognize me, and how I wanted every morning to be like that.”_

_Wetting his lips, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the cold marble, eyes squeezed shut and remembering a tender moment that not even the most brutal torture could pry from him._

_“Goodbye, sweetheart.”_


End file.
